


John’s Classification

by TheGriefPolice



Series: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson: Little Detectives [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU - Classifications, Accidental Outing, Classifications, Dom!Mycroft, Littles Are Known, M/M, Non-Sexual Age Play, Series, blankies, little!john, little!sherlock, part one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-14 05:02:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16486409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGriefPolice/pseuds/TheGriefPolice
Summary: Cleaning out a cluttered closet with Sherlock was a mistake. He was whining and nosey and wouldn’t stay out of John’s things. But one misplaced blanket shares a secret John wasn’t ready to tell.





	1. Sherlock find out

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, my decision is that the world need more little!john, so here’s my take. This is part one to a soon-to-be-series. Not sure how long it will be, so keep an eye out.

“What’s that?” Sherlock asked, pulling something out of the closet.

John looked over, his heart skipping in a beat as he recognized the old blanket. 

“Nothing,” he said, yanking it from Sherlock’s hands and throwing it onto the pile of his stuff.

Mrs Hudson had asked they declutter the apartment as much as possible, claiming all of the junk was putting a bow in her ceiling. Sherlock had refused until John told him to suck it up or lose everything he had because John would throw it away.

Now, John was greatly regretting his decision of pushing Sherlock into helping. The man seemed to be pulling everything out the closet John would rather he not find.

Sherlock looked him over with that look he had when decoding a crime scene, but John pretended to not notice. The last thing he needed was the man putting things together in a way he really didn’t need.

John grabbed at a box and started to pull the lid open. Finding only old sweaters, he set it aside in the look-at-later pile. 

The next thing John pulled from a top shelf was a box filled with newspaper clippings of all different sizes and colors.

“Sherlock, what is this?” John asked pushing the box more towards his roommate so he could have a closer look.

Sherlock peered into the box. “Ah, yes, my records. I was wondering where those had gotten to.” He pulled several out to glance over before stuffing them back in.

John pulled one of the cutouts from the box, glancing it over. “Sherlock, these are obituaries. Why do you have records of dead people?”

“I like to keep track.” Sherlock shrugged.

John shook his head, pushing the bos towards the rest of Sherlock’s things. “People are going to think you’re some kind of serial killer.”

“Most people already do.” Sherlock said as he reached for another object from the top shelf. “Besides, who’s to say I’m not.”

John rolled his eyes, deciding to work on a lower shelf as Sherlock cleared out the top one. He told himself it had nothing to do with height, just what was easiest to access because of Sherlock’s big head.

“So what is this?” Sherlock said, standing next to his pile and lifting the blanket from earlier. 

John sighed, not even having noticed the man had left the task at hand and was now by his things.

“Sherlock, leave my stuff alone,” John warned, eyebrows lowered.

“So you’re protective of it, but why?” Sherlock tuned the blanket around in his hands. “It looks like a child’s blanket, but it’s not worn enough to be from your childhood.”

John stood up, reaching for the blanket. “Sherlock, stop.”

Sherlock yanked it out of John’s grasp, looking the object and his roommate over. “It’s clearly been ripped, but the stitching is careful, so you hold it dearly.”

“Sherlock, please, just drop it.” John begged, reaching for the blanket for the second time, only to have it pulled out of his reach again.

“Maybe it is a child’s blanket, but that wouldn’t make any sense. You have no children, and there is only one blanket. You’re over protectiveness of it means it is yours, but if not from your childhood…”

John’s stomach sank and his hands went cold. Sherlock knew. Shit, Sherlock knew.

John snatched the blanket as quickly as he could, Sherlock in shock or too slow to pull it away this time as John raced up the stairs and to his room. John made sure to lock the door before he fell down on his bed, curling around the blanket as tightly as he could.

It wasn’t like he and Sherlock had never talked about Classifications, but they have never talked about their Classifications, and John had planned to keep it that way. John really didn’t know what he expected, though. Sherlock was a detective. And a damn good one at that. How long did he think he’d get away with putting up a mask?

He’d been really good at hiding it. Considering he’s done it whole life, it almost came as second nature. He wasn’t young enough to be one of those Littles that was easily identifiable because they had almost no bladder or motor control when they were Little. He was skilled at hiding when he did feel younger.

That was how he had been allowed in the Army, after all. Writing in Neutral was easy enough when they didn’t do regular Classification checks on new recruits. His training was good enough and his ability to hide was high enough that he had moved up the ranks quickly without anyone the wiser. 

He had left the Army and had been living his life in relative secrecy ever since. Well, until today.

Sherlock would get angry for sure. Maybe John would be kicked out and he’d be alone again. John would go right back to where he’d been before Sherlock had drug him along on this adventure. 

Even Harry had stopped talking to him as much when she found out he was a Little--who’s to say Sherlock wouldn’t be the same way? 

A knock on his door brought John away from his thoughts. He balled into himself tighter, pretending to ignore the knocks when they came again.

“John,” a voice asked through the door.

“Go away!” John yelled, tucking his face deeper into the blanket.

“John, please open the door before I have to get Sherlock to get a spare key.” The voice asked again.

John looked over at the door, wondering who it could be if not Sherlock himself. No one else had been in the apartment. He decided the best way to handle this situation was to pretend it wasn’t happening and buried his head under his pillow as he crawled under the covers, blanket pressed close to his chest.

If he had just thrown out the blanket like everything else, this never would have happened. Instead, he thought it was safe to just stash it away where he wouldn’t have easy access. How stupid of him. Really, it was no surprise. John was always stupid.

“John, please. I promise we just want to talk.”

“No!” John yelled, the effort hurting his throat. How long had he been crying?

“We’re coming in, okay?” The voice said, followed by the sound of a key being placed into the lock before the door creaked open.

A naive part of him hoped that the blankets and pillows would make him invisible so he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. He just wanted to be left alone to cry in his room without anyone annoying him. They could kick him out later.

A weight on his bed told him his camouflage didn’t work at all.

“John?” The voice asked again.

John peeked out from under the pillow to find Mycroft looking down at him with soft eyes.

Great, Sherlock had called his brother to kick him out. John was going to be removed by the full force of the British government.

“Hey, what’re all these tears about?” Mycroft asked, gently pulling the comforter away.

John tucked under the sheets instead, determined to hide his face. He wasn’t feeling Little--he wasn’t even sure he could be fully Little anymore--but he wasn’t thinking with his full Big brain. 

“Sweetheart, can we talk, please?”

John shook his head immediately. Talking led to more talking and more talking led to questions. John didn’t like lying, and everything he was asked he tried to answer as truthfully as possible, just not touch the questions he didn’t like. But there were some things he knew he wouldn’t get away with avoiding right now.

“John, I need you to talk to me for a second.” Mycroft pushed.

John made no move to change the position of his head, and heard as Mycroft sighed.

“How about I talk for a second, okay?” John could feel as Mycroft shifted positions, lifting one leg to cross it over the other before a hand was laid gently on John’s back. “I’m betting that you’ve been hiding for a while? Maybe to get into the Army, maybe to avoid the laws, maybe for another reason. But you’ve been doing it pretty well. Even I hadn’t guessed, which is astonishing. Getting passed not only a Dom and Caregiver, but also going unnoticed by another Little.”

John felt his eyebrows furrow as he pulled his head out from the pillows. “Little?” He asked.

“Yes, Sherlock.” Mycroft said, as if it was obvious. 

John let his face fall back into his pillows as he tried to think of any signs of Sherlock being a little. Unsurprisingly, Mycroft was right. Sherlock was impulsive, brash, and constantly forgot to take care of himself. He wouldn’t eat until someone told him to, and he wouldn’t take a break or go to bed until someone demanded it.

“The one thing I don’t understand is that, after having come home and no longer needing to, why did you keep up the act?”

John let the question mill over his head for a bit. He’d been asking himself the same question a lot. Being a Little wasn’t near as bad in recent years as it had been when he was Classified. But old habits die hard, he guessed. And if the military found out he was lying of official forms, he’d be in for one hell of a trip to prison. 

But, under it all, he realized it was fear. John was terrified of everyone leaving him because they thought he needed help constantly. He didn’t. He did plenty well in his own, thank you. But his father hadn’t seen it that way when his letter arrived. And neither did Harry, after hearing everything their father had said. What if someone else decided he was too much trouble and did the same thing? He would be all alone. He’d rather be half himself with people he loved than “fully true” as they called fifty-fifty Littles and surrounded by dust and tumble weed. 

Littles were supposed to be fifty-fifty, so said the health organizations. They spend half their time Little and half their time Big. It was supposed to be the best way to keep a Little healthy. But John was doing just fine as a hundred-nothing. 

Right?

“John, nothing's going to change about your adult life, no matter what you say. You will still be a consultant for Scotland Yard, and still be Sherlock’s flatmate. But it’s not healthy for you to deny yourself like this. And we can’t allow it to go on.”

John let out another sob into the pillow, the small fear of his tears and snot staining it as he moved his face back and forth to get everything off his skin. As much as he hated it, Mycroft had a point. It wasn’t particularly mentally healthy. But John had always summed up mental issues to his PTSD and stored them in the far-back of his mind, never to be over-analyzed.

“I’m not saying it has to be Greg and I, but I’d like to see you taken care of in some way.”

John shook his head, “No, I don’t need a Caregiver.”

“John…”

“Mycroft is really nice.” Sherlock’s soft voice came from the doorway.

John looked up to see his flatmate slumped over, eyes watching his hands as he pulled at a loose thread. It hit him suddenly that he should have guessed from day one, but Sherlock and him just never talked about it. 

“Sher, I asked you to stay down stairs.” Mycroft scolded.

“But John’s crying and he’s my friend!” Sherlock voiced, slightly louder than was necessary. “I just wanted to help.”

John pushed against the side of him that was ready to fall into Mycroft’s lap and cry his eyes out. He wiped his face, and with a shaky breath, said, “I’m fine. I’ve been doing just fine on my own.”

It was a full-hearted lie, but John didn’t care. He refused to be a burden, and he refused to be left alone in such a vulnerable state. He’d been through that before and he would never put himself into that situation again.

“Look, just because you know now doesn’t change anything. Just like you said, Mycroft. Our relationship won’t change. I’m not a child, and I don’t need to be taken care of.”

John almost crumbled under the hurt look on Sherlock’s face. Almost.

Instead, Mycroft took a deep breath in and stood up. “Please let us know if you need anything.”

John didn’t respond, watching as Mycroft placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and led him out of the room, closing the door.

John fell back onto the bed, laying on his back and staring at the ceiling. He refused to acknowledge the tears still streaming from his face. 

When he heard two pairs of feet walking down the stairs and the front door opening and closing, John stood up with the blanket clutched in his hands. He stomped down the stairs and into the kitchen, opening the cabinet that held their trash bin, and threw the blanket in.

His heart twisted at the sight, but he pushed it down, closed the closet, and went back to his room.


	2. Dropped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two~ 
> 
> Hope y’all enjoy!

A week had passed before he decided he could see Sherlock, another week before he was comfortable in the same room, and two weeks after that to feel as if things had gone back to normal. He had been helping out on classes when he could, but he was in his room for the most part.

It was... lonely...

But John was determined to show people that he didn’t need anyone looking out for him. A Little status wasn’t going to change that. He ignored the looks Sherlock sent him from the couch when John walked downstairs for a cuppa. He avoided Greg as much as possible because Greg was a Caregiver and the last thing he needed was one of those doting on him.

When John has first been Classified, before his father had found the letter, John had wished for a Caregiver. The idea of someone loving you unconditionally, taking care of you, always being there—all of it—sounded magical. But it wasn’t.

The only person he had ever willingly told had been an ex-girlfriend. They had been dating for almost a year, and he felt bad having lied to her, and one night, it just popped out. She had laughed, called him a lier, and then left. John had called and texted her for a week trying to apologize, but was only met with an answering machine and check marks that said it had been read. By the second week, she had blocked him, and John gave up all hope.

John wasn’t truly sure of his age as a Little, either. He knew he wasn’t too young because he hardly ever had accidents. And even when he did, it was easy to explain away with a nightmare—which wasn’t a lie. But he knew of Little that could have been Classified right after puberty because they were so young. They were rare, but not unheard of. Most Littles fell between four and ten, with a few outliers on either end. John had never gone into Littlespace enough to find out for himself. 

John sat on his bed, looking through comments on his blog a month and a half after Sherlock had found out. No one had brought up anything about his Classification, and even Sherlock seemed to have forgotten all about it. It was a relief in most ways, but also oddly disappointing. He felt ignored, in a strange way. No one was pushing him for answers or asking him how he was doing. He should absolutely feel as if everything was as it should be... 

But it didn’t...

He felt... Well, he wasn’t really sure. “Off” would be the best way to describe it. Not wrong, per say, but not right either.

It wasn’t until a drop hit the screen of his cellphone that he realized he must be crying. He sat up from his hunched position and wiped at his eyes. Since when did Doctor John Watson cry?

He stood up with a sniffle and shook his head. He felt wrong, too. Almost as if he was sick. But what kind of illness would come on so suddenly? 

He had just closed up a case with Sherlock that morning, and they had gone out to lunch. Everything was supposed to be okay. So why did he feel as if his legs were going to give out on him?

Suddenly, a thought ran through his body and he reacted as if hot embers had been thrown in his face.

_I don’t want to be alone!_

John yanked his door open and stumbled down the stairs, body moving before his head could tell him not to. Every logical thing in him was yelling to go back to his room, that he was perfectly fine alone. But his body wouldn’t listen, pulling open the door into the living room.

Sherlock looked up from his chair. He looked as if he had just been stuck in his own head—his “mind palace”—pointer fingers touching at the tips as he sat plank-straight. 

“John?”

John forced a smile as he leaned against the wall, huffing in breath as much as he could. He started to wave a hello, but his legs gave out before he could. The wall slowed his fall, but he still fell into a crumpled heap, as if he was a blanket that had been tossed off a bed.

Sherlock was on his feet and across the room in milliseconds, hand on John’s shoulder to brace him against the wall.

“John, what’s wrong?” Sherlock’s gray eyes were filled with a worry John didn’t think he’d ever seen before. 

“I-I—“ John huffed, a hot flash burning it’s way through his body, “Don’t know.” 

Sherlock’s eyes looked him over, scanning up and down. A cool hand was pushed against his forehead, only to be pulled away a second later. And then a knowing look broke out over his face.

“John, you’re going to drop.”

John could feel his face twist in confusion and worry. “What?”

“You’re going to drop and you need to stop resisting it or it’s going to hurt.”

“I’m not on top of anything, how am I going to—“ and then it hit him that Sherlock wasn’t talking about a physical drop.

John pushed against the wall in a sad attempt to get away from Sherlock. “No, I-I can’t. I’m fine.”

“John, stop resisting. You need to breath.” Sherlock kept their eyes lock, but John could see him fumbling around with his phone. “You need to give in.”

John shook his head, ignoring another wave of heat. 

“John, it’s okay. We’ll take care of you, I promise. If you keep resisting at this rate, you’ll end up in a hospital.”

The last thing John wanted was to be admitted into a hospital under no-free-will. He took in a shaky breath, ignoring the tears streaming down his face.

“How?”

Sherlock gave a tiny, almost unnoticeable, triumphant smile. “Breath I’m really deep, and let it out really slow.” John did as he was told. “There you go, now close your eyes. Think of something that makes you happy. It can be anything.”

John dug through his brain, looking for anything that would work. Most of his memories from the Army made his proud, not happy. And his childhood brought little hope, save for one time with Harry that had ended with his face covered in mud. But that wasn’t enough.

What made him happy? What made John Watson truly happy to be alive?

And then he remembered that first day after he met Sherlock. Their first case. Coming home that night and laughing over a pint. Walking home and John breathing in slowly as he looked around the living room. The first time he had ever felt like he was home.

“Looks like you found something.” Sherlock said, the smile evident even with John’s eyes closed.

John modded his head.

“Okay, just focus on that and breath.” Sherlock’s hand shifted from John’s shoulder to his chest, pressing just enough to not hurt. “Let yourself lull in that moment and just follow what you feel.”

John could do that. He held onto the moment, ignoring the feeling of his limps getting heavy and his breathing slowing. He didn’t feel so hot anymore. He did kind of fell fuzzy, which he wasn’t sure if he liked or not. But Sherlock was here if something happened. 

“Hey, baby, can you open your eyes for me?” 

John cracked open his eyes, finding a worried Greg crouched down next to him. “There you are, hello.”

John have a soft smile, letting his eyes flutter closed. He suddenly felt very strange, as if the world had slowed down. Everything was calm, everything was okay. He was okay.

“Here you go, John-John.” Sherlock said, pushing something into his lap.

John looked down, surprised to find the quilted blanket in his lap. His blanket, with the lamb dancing on the side surrounded with heart patterned fabric. He pulled it up to his face and buried himself in it. It smelled really nice.

“We’re going to take you to Mycroft’s house, okay, baby?” Greg asked.

John was too floaty to really object, so he just nodded his head.

Greg reaching for John and the next thing John knew, he was sitting on the detective’s hip. John laid his head again Greg’s shoulder, letting his eyes close for the last time.

Briefly he heard someone say, “I knew this was coming,” but he didn’t care enough to listen to the rest. He had his blanket again and he was so very tired. He’d just rest for a bit, and then he’d be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos give me a reason to live!!!


	3. Just give us a chance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, crazy people! My life has been garbage so I sat in the shower for three hours and wrote this, please enjoy the results of my mental breakdown!
> 
> #COLLEGEISAFUCKINGSCAM

JC 3

There was something off about the room John was in. Even with his eyes closed and unwilling to open due to the warmth of the covers, John could feel the air was different. It moved in a in a way that told John he wasn’t at home in his small room at Baker Street.

And then there was the smell, so much different that the musty aroma that came with living in old buildings. No, this air was fresh and new, as if it had just come in through a window from a spring morning. 

None of this, however, alarmed John enough to wake up and investigate. Nothing told him he wasn’t safe here, nothing sent cold shivers down his spine. He was content to doze off and on.

It wasn’t until the faint smell of sizzling bacon wafted into the room that John opened his eyes and sat up. He looked around, taking in the light-blue painted walls with glow-in-the-dark stars scattered across the ceiling. A books shelf that had been designed to look like a rocket ship blasting off sat off to John’s left by the windows, stacked with books of all sizes. John’s eyes landed on a dresser that was covered in Star Wars stickers, drawers half open and spilling over.

Toys covered almost every inch of the floor, legos and action figures lying in wait for their next play time. The bed John realizes he was laying on had a striped blue comforter and sheets that looked like stars. John wonder for a moment if they lit up in the dark, too.

With a disgruntled sign, John remembered everything from last night. Sherlock had been with him, made sure he was okay. And then Greg was there. He’d said something about going to Mycroft’s, and now John was realizing that must be where he was. And this room must have been Sherlock’s.

His eyes landed on a small pile of laundry in the corner of the room, and John realized that Sherlock was no different here than he was at Baker Street.

John threw his feet over the side of the bed, only then noticing the pajamas he was engulfed in. A simple set with bears playing joyfully on playground equipment. John flinched as he took in the fabric, eyes then scanning the room for any sign of his real clothes. Finding nothing, he huffed and stood up.

He had to shuffle as he walked, kicking toys out of the way so he didn’t step on them. He still somehow missed a spiked action figure foot, causing him to stumble until he tripped, landing on his knees. More toys dug into his knees and hands, causing his to cry out.

The door swung open, a concerned looking Greg swooping in and scooping John up.

“I told Sherlock to clean his room,” Greg murmured under his breath, pulling John onto his hip. “Are you okay, baby?”

John, I’m too much of a shock to push away, simply nodded his head. He wasn’t sure what to do as Greg pulled at John’s hands, forcing his fingers open to look at his palm. Seemingly satisfied to find that John wasn’t hurt, he kicked a few toys aside and made way out of the room.

It was just before Greg got to the stairs that reality snapped back to John.

“Will you put me down!” John pushed at Greg’s side until he was released and fell ungracefully on to his feet.

“What the hell,” John whipped at invisible dish on his shirt, cringing at the fabric patter once more. 

“John?” Greg said his name as if he was surprised, and John decided not to read too much into that.

“I thank you for you assistance last night, but I would like my clothes and I would like to go home, please.” John tried his best to sound dignified, but even he knew it wasn’t working when paired with these clothes.

“John...” Greg’s voice trailed off this time, an apparent look of sadness on his face. 

Hard steps up the stairs brought all eyes to Sherlock, and John didn’t have any time to back away before Sherlock has grabbed his hand and dragged him down the stairs.

“John-John! You’re gonna be my brother, okay? And we’re just gonna play all day and Greg will make us Mac and Cheese and Mycroft is gonna take us to the park—“ Sherlock rambled on and he dragged John through the halls and closer to the smell of bacon.

Honestly, John wasn’t sure what to do with a Little Sherlock, so unlike the Sherlock John has grown to know, and yet, exactly like him.

Eventually the hallway opened into a large formal dining room, exactly the kind John was expecting in a house like this. Everything was made from dark wood, carved into beautiful and intricate designs. A while strip of fabric stretched across the middle of a perfectly polished maple table, three large silver candle holders placed perfectly in the middle, all spaced apart. John was almost nervous just looking at the room, eyes falling to the floor.

He was relieved as Sherlock pulled him through a set of doors into what looked like the kitchen. Mycroft sat as a table tucked into an alcove with a bay window over looking a back garden filled with flowers that John would never be able to name.

“Ah, there you are, boys. Come and eat before your breakfast is cold.” Mycroft folded his paper and sat it to the side, taking a sip of his tea.

Sherlock ran to his chair, looking up at John expectantly as he patted the seat next to him. John wasn’t even sure why he was listening, why he was sitting at a table in a house he’d never even heard about. He stared at the plate before him, not sure what to do. He was an adult, looking at a plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon on a plastic Star Wars plate. 

He pushed the plate back, looking up as Greg walked in, huffing. 

“What is going on?” John finally asked.

Mycroft looked up, as if just realizing that John was here.

“John isn’t Little right now.” Greg pipped in as he sat down.

Mycroft sent John a perplexed look. “After your crash last night, I didn’t expect you to wake up Big.”

John suddenly felt like he’d done something wrong, but he pushed it away. No one wanted a penalty Little around. Especially when they already had one. John looked over at Sherlock for a moment, as if to assure himself that he wasn’t the only one here.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t expect to crash. What even was that!” 

“That was your body’s response to stress.” Mycroft said. “Little are not forced to be Little, unlike popular belief. But it is a way that you can relive stress. When a Little racks up too much stress and doesn’t find a way to release it, they crash.”

“But it’s never happened before and I’ve been stressed many times.” John pointed out. 

Mycroft seemed to mull this over before nodding and saying, “yes, well, you had a way to release it before, no?”

John could feel his eyes furrow as he stared at Mycroft.

“You were in a war zone, you fixed people, and had that release after they were safe. I’m a way, I supposed the stress was released unconsciously through minor wins.”

John shook his head. None of this made any sense. Crashing because of stress? He’d never even heard of that before. And if it was true, a “minor win” from “saving lives” didn’t sound like it would prevent it.

John stood up, pushing his chair back. “I would like my clothes, and I would like to go home.”

“John, stop. We need to talk about this.” Greg said, glancing between John and Mycroft.

“Fine, you all talk, I’m leaving.” John walked back towards the door Sherlock had dragged him through, suddenly aware that there was no way he’d find his way out through this maze of rooms and hallways.

“John-John!” Sherlock called out.

John turned out, his heart sinking when his eyes landed onto Sherlock’s face. He was close to tears.

Sherlock Holmes looked like he was going to cry and it was Josh’s fault.

“John, please. You can’t keep doing this to yourself.” Greg was standing, but didn’t make any move towards John. “What if Sherlock hadn’t been there? Crashing can send people to the hospital. It’s painful. What if you had been in public without anyone there?”

John’s stomach sank. Greg was right. God, John hated when other people were right.

“Please, just hear us out.” Greg’s voice was soft, and John’s resolution fell. Not like he could get a cab home, anyway. Driver would have gotten one look at him and asked him where his Caregiver was.

John sighed and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “Alright, fine.”

“Come sit down, please.” Greg asked.

“Yeah! John-John, come sit next to me!” Sherlock patted the chair next to him again.

John let out another sigh, pushing off the wall and back to his seat.

“Thank you.” Greg smiles at him, and John felt a small flutter through his stomach. 

“All we’re offering is a bit of help.” Greg said, pushing John’s plate back towards him. “Sherlock comes over twice a week, and spends a whole weekend once a month. You can come with him and spend some time in your Space. You’ll get some good food in you, a shower, and then a good night’s sleep.”

John has to admit, it sounded nice. Almost like heaven. But John knew better than to think there weren’t strings attached. 

“What’s the catch?”

“We have rules.” Mycroft spike up for the first time in a while. “Betimes, mealtimes, a restriction on TV consumption.”

John’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Those are just normal rules? What’s the real catch?”

Mycroft looked at him curiously. “John, whatever boot you’re looking to drop here, it’s not coming. There is no catch where we require you to work or always be Little. We do not force things on you outside of what you need. That’s not what we do here.”

John looked between Mycroft and Greg, then over at Sherlock. 

Sherlock seemed to have calmed down, sitting shyly in his seat and picking at his napkin. When he looked up and noticed John starting at him, Sherlock said, “We’ve got lots of toys. And we’ve got a playground in the garden.”

John was surprised once again at this sky Sherlock, so much more expressive than the man John has grown to know as his Flatmate. 

“We can use this weekend as a tester?” Greg suggested. “If you don’t think it will work, we won’t push. If it does, well go from there.”

John mulled it over, wondering if this was worth it. Finally, without meeting their eyes, John asked, “Why do you all even want me.”

Littles are nothing but trouble, that’s what John’s father has said. No one would ever willingly sigh up for this, that’s why John has blocked it. There was no law saying a Little needed a Caregiver. It was recommended, but not law. So why would And Caregiver sign up for this if no one was making them?

“Because we love you, John. And we want to make sure you’re safe.” Greg responded, as if it took no thought at all.

John wasn’t sure what to do with that. Instead, he piled up his fork and poked around his plate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your all comments give me a reason to live, thank you so much!!!


	4. Playground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I’m not sure how long this will be, but I’m not thinking too much longer. I do want to make this a series, so yeah..
> 
> Enjoy!

JC 4

John wasn’t really sure what he expected when Sherlock had jumped at the chance to go outside and play in the garden, but it wasn’t the three-piece play ground John had expected to see at a public park and not on private property. Then again, Mycroft was the British government. John supposed that came with at least a half-decent pay check. 

John pulled at the oversized overalls he’d been dressed in, unsure of what to do as Sherlock darted off towards a twin set of slides. He fiddled with the shoulder snaps, opening and closing them over and over. 

The first part of the playground was a standard set of four slides sets at different heights, one even covered to form a tube. Bridges connected each of the platforms, ladders, a climbing wall, a monkey bar trail, and a fireman’s pole all leading up to the platforms. The monkey bar trail led to the second part, which looked like a mess of intertwined bars as they looped around and meet up with what looked like a simple challenge course. Finally, a set of four swings lined the back of the mulched-in area, one of the swing replaced with a two-person alligator-looking swing that looked almost like a hanging see-saw.

John stayed close to Greg as Sherlock pushed himself down the slide, landing on his feet with more force than needed before he pushed himself up and darted under one of the higher platforms.

“You can go play,” Greg smiled as he took a seat on a strategically-placed bench under an old pine tree. 

John shook his head, bitting at his lip. He knew Greg was just trying to ease him into headspace with everything—Greg had said so himself—but John wasn’t really sure what to do. He’d never really been little, and defiantly not in front of other people. What was he even supposed to do? Jump around like Sherlock?

His hand was pulled away from his side and Sherlock was suddenly pulling him towards the playground. 

“We can race on the slides!” Sherlock said, pulling John up the steps, flopping down at the top and slapping the slide next to him.

John sat down, unsure of what to do. He could feel his Little space craw it’s way out, and he wasn’t sure if he liked this obvious follower mentality he was showing. John Watson was a man of dignity, a leader in almost every aspect. Except, not when it came to Sherlock. 

Sherlock dragged him to investigations all over the place, pulling John in on more than one misadventure. And John had never questioned that. Maybe this was just another thing John had to trust Sherlock on. He sure seemed to know what he was doing.

“First one to the bottom wins!” Sherlock shouted, pushing off.

A small burst of competition rose in John’s gut, throwing all hesitation to the side as he pushed off and followed Sherlock.

John slid to the bottom, only a moment after Sherlock who happily jumped in the air and chanted, “I win!” Before poking John’s shoulder and proclaiming, “That makes you It!”

Sherlock took off for the other side of the playground and John was only a step behind. It had been ages since he played tag, but the rules were still firmly set in his head as he watched Sherlock weave through a play house to the other side and loop around the swings. There was something to be said about the adrenaline rush that pushed through him, forcing his legs to move faster to catch up with Sherlock. 

Sherlock took the steps back up toward the slides, John hot on his heals and snagging his shoulder just as Sherlock dove for the tube slide.

“You’re it!” John yelled, immediately back-tracking down the steps and taking off towards the edge of the mulched-in area.

John almost couldn’t believe he was laughing as he stepped wrong and his feet’s came out from under him. Sherlock ran up, concern in his eyes. John shook his head to dislodge any wood chips that may have found their way into his hair, and pushed himself up.

“You okay?” Sherlock asked.

Another unfamiliar trait came through Sherlock’s voice—empathy. So much for a sociopath. John wondered if Sherlock had just put on that mask when he was older to save face. Little Sherlock seemed very expressive and almost warm, every emotion right on his face instead of tucked under years of carefully crafted cynicism. John liked this side of Sherlock.

John liked all sides of Sherlock, but this one made him feel... Well, he supposed the best word was “Little.” And for a moment, that wasn’t terrifying.

John stood up, dusting off his overalls before sending Sherlock a smile and darting back towards the playground.

“Hey!” Sherlock laughed, chasing after him.

After what felt like forever of playing tag, a trip on the swings where Greg offered to push John and John promptly refused—he wasn’t that helpless, he just didn’t know how they worked but he could figure it out on his own just fine, thanks—a ride on the alligator thing that John was surprised did work like a hanging see-saw, and numerous slide races, Greg said it was time to go in.

John almost pouted along with Sherlock, not ready to call quits on the most fun he has ever had in his whole life. And yes, it was even better than that one time he’d gotten drunk with his mates and they had all gone to the carnival. The rational part of John was quick to cut in, though, telling him that it was stupid to complain over such things.

“Can we have dinosaur nuggets for lunch?” Sherlock asked as he ran over, almost plowing over John. “Please please please please.”

“I’ll think about it, come on.” Greg held out two hands, one of which Sherlock promptly took. It took Greg wiggling his fingers for John to realize he was supposed to take the other. 

John tentatively reached for the hand, half expecting it to be ripped away just before contact. Instead, Greg squeezed his hand gently and walked them back towards the house. John nervously chewed on the nail of his thumb as they walked, and old habit he never could quite kick. He could taste the dirt from rolling around in the mulch, but didn’t care enough to stop.

When they got back to the house, Greg had both Little sit on a bench in the mud room as he took off their shoes, something John had never had anyone do before. Greg said it was so they didn’t track dirt through the house, though, so John let him do it. 

“You two go wash your hands and go into the play room until lunch is done.” Greg said as he knocked their shoes together, dislodging any dirt that may have been on them.

Sherlock darted from his seat and down the hall, turning left and disappearing from sight.

“Hands!” Greg called after him.

John could hear Sherlock groan, his feet coming back before cutting into what must have been a bathroom. 

Greg sent John an amused grin. “Go on, I’m sure you’ll find something you like in the playroom.”

John nodded, standing up and grabbing a quick look at his colorful socks with puppies dancing around them. He looked back up, staring down the hall with squinted eyes.

“Bathroom is first one on the left.” Greg smiled, then, after a small pause, held out his hand again. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

John nodded, once again reaching for Greg’s hand. It was only his second time, but he already liked hand holding very much. There was something to be said for having someone else right by you, never unsure of their presence when the evidence was right there in your own hand. 

All too soon, Greg had let go to push open a door into a white bathroom. John had simi-expected Greg to leave him be, but the Caregiver had instead followed him into the bathroom and turned on the faucet. Evidence of Sherlock having come through was water and soap splashed carelessly all over the counter.

“That boy,” Greg tisked under his breath, “come on, let’s get your hands cleaned.”

John nodded, walking to Greg. He stuck his hands into the sink, surprised as Greg reached around either side of John and pumped soap into his own hand, then seemed to wash them around John’s. At first, John thought the whole situation odd, as if he should be pulling away and not allowing it. And then he realized that it was actually fun, Greg’s hands running across John’s palms and knuckles, getting every bit of dirt off. When Greg seemed satisfied, he stuck their hands back under the faucet and moved John’s hands until all of the sudds were gone.

“There we go!” Greg smiled, reaching for a towel and placing it over John’s hands. “All clean, yeah?”

John couldn’t help the small smile that spread across his face as Greg rubbed the towel across his hands, then threw it over John’s head. John giggled, shaking his head and letting the towel fall, only to be caught by Greg.

“I was worried we’d lost you to a mud monster!”

John shook his head no, a blush coming across his face. He most defiantly was not a mud monster, thank you very much.

Greg chuckled. “Alright, lets get you to the play room, yeah. Bet Sherlock’ll be wondering where you are.”

John nodded, this time not hesitating at all when Greg held his hand out, happily following him down the hall. John was still blown away by the maze of a house, but all thoughts of a labyrinth were forgotten when Greg opened the door into what was called a playroom but more accurately should have been called a toy store.

Bookshelves lined most of the walls, some filled with books, but most stuffed with storage bins overflowing with different toys. Tables were scattered about with crayons, legos, a dollhouse, craft supplies, cardboard boxes, and just about everything else that anyone could ever think existed. John realized he was holding a breath and had to slowly release it. 

“John-John!” Sherlock cheered, running over from a reading corner off to the right, bay window looking out at the playground they had just come from. “We can play dragons, okay!”

John would have gone along, just like he had all day, but the sight of a book thrown off to the side pulled him towards the reading corner. He approached it slowly, almost uncertain as to weather or not it was real. But the watercolor picture wasn’t something that belonged to anyone else. The familiar smile of the baby, wrapped in toilet paper and holding a black watch only inches away from a toilet, greeted him. John pushed away the other books, making sure it really was there.

“Hey, John, you okay?” 

John looked up, surprised to see that Greg had followed him. John nodded, pointing to the book in a silent question.

“Yeah, you can read that.” Greg said, a small smile on his lips. 

John smiled, snatching the book up and flopping down at the table to look through it.

“Do you like this book?” Greg asked, tapping on the spine with his forefinger.

John nodded, looking up for a split second. Sherlock was across the room, zooming around with a toy dragon in his hands, arms waving through invisible obstacles.

“Use’a have one.” John mumbled as he flipped the pages. 

“Yeah?” Greg asked. He sounded genuinely interested, which was not something John had been expecting.

“Uh huh.” John nodded, then flipped to the next page. “But dad threw it ‘way when mum died.”

John spun the book around to show Greg his favorite part, where the son was all grown up and taking care of his own baby. He looked up at Greg, expecting to see the man smile and instead was met with a saddened face.

“Do you not have it anymore, then?” Greg asked, a small smile forced as he seemed to realize what John wanted from him.

John turned the book back around with a shake of his head, flipping back to the beginning of the book.

“Would you like this one, then?” Greg asked.

John looked up, excitement boiling up. “I can have?” 

Greg smiled, a real one this time, John could tell. “Of course. You can have anything you like in here, okay?”

“No my dragon!” Sherlock’s yelled, and Greg chuckled. 

“Almost anything.”

John couldn’t help but smile back, closing the book and hugging it tight to his chest.

“You going to be okay in here while I make lunch?” Greg asked.

John nodded, an excited smile across his face. 

When Greg left, John moved over to the bay window that had padded seats. It was warm in the window, and he had been playing a lot today. Not to mention he hadn’t really slept very much yesterday. So when his eyes started to feel heavy as he read his new book, he decided to not fight it. For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t afraid to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something you wanna see? Don’t be afraid to ask! I love working in little moments for you all!
> 
> Comments are always appreciated!!! ❤️


	5. Movie night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alright! Back again! Updates have been pretty quick just because I have so much I want to touch on, and I’m sorry for any errors. Please know I have dyslexia, and—try as I might—stuff gets past me pretty easily.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy the final chapter of this part, and keep an eye out for the next part in a week or so!

JC 5

John was floaty and happy—feelings he wasn’t used to waking up with. But when his eyes cracked open and all he could see was a view of a playground in the afternoon sun, John was sure it wasn’t real. This must be a dream, no other explanation of it. He must have gotten piss drunk and hit his head. But that didn’t mean he didn’t like it.

“John-John had an accident!” 

John looked up to see Sherlock staring at him. John wasn’t sure why until the words registered and he immediately looked down. His pants were soaked! They weren’t even his! John could feel heat build up behind his eyes, unable to stop tears as they fell. John Watson did not cry, but clearly he was not John Watson. No, John knew he was Little. He could feel it, the floating, the way his thoughts had slowed, the fact that he was falling into tears instead of yelling at himself. 

John pushed himself off the the bench and onto the floor, falling into a heap. He could clean himself up, even when he was Little, but he cried an awful lot first. 

“Hey, hey, hey, what’s all this?”

And there was Greg. Sweet, kind Greg who had been so nice and gave John a book. He was going to be mad, wasn’t he. Everyone was always mad when John had accidents. He didn’t even have them that often!

Two hands were under his arms a moment later, and John was being lifted off the floor and into Greg’s arms. John was crying too hard to say he was sorry, but he was still trying.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Greg whispered, rocking side to side. “It was just an accident.”

“Ah-ah-I-I’m sorrrry~” John wailed. He was wet and gross and everyone was gonna be mad at him and he wasn’t gonna be able to come over anymore and he never should have agreed to stay.

“It’s okay, hey. its was just an accident. We’ll get you cleaned up in no time at all, and then we can have lunch, yeah?” Greg bobbed John up and down as he made way out of the room, calling back, “Sher, lunch is on the table if you wanna go ahead and eat. Mycroft is waiting for you.”

Sherlock called an okay, running the other way. John watched him over Greg’s shoulder until they both turned a corner. 

“There we go,” Greg said as they walked into Sherlock’s room upstairs. “You wait here for just a moment while I get some clothes, okay?”

John chewed on his nail as he nodded. He wasn’t about to not listen. He knew better than to disobey at times like this. John wondered if Greg would come back with a belt or just a spoon. Both would hurt equally, but he’d prefer the spoon if possible. John’s father hadn’t gotten as much momentum with a spoon since it was shorter, so it wasn’t as forceful, but the hard wood meant it still stung like an angry hornet.

To his relief and surprise, Greg just came in carrying another pair of overalls and a striped green shirt. 

“You look terrified, sweetheart.” Greg chuckled as he sat the new clothes at the bottom of Sherlock’s bed. “We’re just gonna get you changed, okay?”

John sniffled, looking over at the pile of clothes again. “No wippin’?”

Greg looked at him as if he didn’t understand for a moment, and then he seemed angry. “John, never. We don’t do that here. Has someone done that to you?”

A new wave of hot tears poored down John’s face, and he wasn’t able to stop them. John was scared, he wasn’t sure he’d ever been this deep in headspace, where he wasn’t able to pull himself out. But maybe it’s because he didn’t want to be Big. John decided to not think about that right now.

“Hey, look, I promise, we don’t do that here. Mycroft and I don’t do that.” Greg held on to John’s hands, tilting his head to see if he could catch the Little’s eyes, but John was adamantly avoiding him.

“Do you believe me?”

John wondered for a moment if he did. People hardly ever kept their word. But... Greg and Mycroft never seemed to make promises they didn’t intend to follow through with. So John gave a curt nod, just something to show he was listening.

Greg waited a moment more before letting go of John’s hands and reaching for the straps. John moved pliantly, unsure of what else to do. He felt like he should pull away and say he could do this himself, but he didn’t have the energy. He had never realized how much effort crying was. Even when Greg reached to pull off his underwear, John simply lifted his legs and did as he was instructed.

“We’re going to try these, okay?” Greg asked, holding up what was clearly a pull-up. 

“No!” All of John’s fight came back to him in full force. “Not a baby!”

“John, this is not something babies use. Lots of big kids have accidents and they use these just to help.”

“No!” John shouted again. “Diapers are for babies!”

“It’s not a diaper,” Greg reasoned, keeping his voice level and calm. “Even Sherlock has to use them sometimes.”

John was taken aback by that. Sherlock seemed too big to need stuff like pull-ups. Then again, Littles did have a wide range of ages they could be. John wondered if Sherlock shifted. It wasn’t unheard of for a Little to not stick to one age, but it also wasn’t very common. Most Littles fell into a group and stayed there consistently. But they would only have these things on hand if Sherlock did fall younger sometimes.

“It’s only precautionary, sweetheart. You can still go potty whenever you need.” Greg said as he opened the pull-up.

John bit on his nail harder. A pull-up would be embarising, but not near as much as wetting his pants again. With a sigh, he resigned. Today was full of firsts for him.

Greg pulled the pull-up up John’s hips and let it snap at his waist before holding open the new pair of overalls. As Greg pulled the straps over his shoulder, he said, “Were going to have to get you some of your own clothes. Sherlock’s don’t fit you very well.”

John shrugged, trying to stay still as Greg adjusted the shoulder straps, then kneeled to roll up the bottoms. 

“There we go, all clean and ready for lunch!” Greg smiled, holding out his hand.

John took it, following behind Greg shyly as they walked back down stairs, through the maze of hallways, and to the kitchen.

Sherlock looked up as soon as the door opened, smiling when he locked eyes on John.

John was feeling too shy to share the smile, instead settling on looking at his newly-chewed fingernail. He knew he shouldn’t be chewing on it so much, but he wasn’t sure how to stop. 

“John-John, look!” John looked up to see Sherlock holding up two dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets. “This one is a T-Rex and this one is a triceratops!”

John smiled as he looked at what must have been his plate, a few nuggets placed in a circle around a glob of ketchup.

“Sherlock said he had an accident?” Mycroft asked, talking to Greg.

John’s face grew hot in a familiar flush. He hadn’t meant to. Maybe Mycroft didn’t like it and would send him away. But Greg’s hand gently squeezing his shoulder was almost as if the man was saying “not under my watch.” Greg gently pushed on John’s shoulder, nudging him to his seat.

John watched as Greg took his seat, sipping on a cup of tea. “Just a small one, nothing that can’t be washed out.”

Mycroft nodded his head, turning back to Sherlock. “Sit on your bottom, please.”

Sherlock groaned, plopping back onto his butt. 

“A bit younger than we thought.” Mycroft mentioned, and John would have missed it with all of Sherlock’s blabbering had something about it made the phrase sound like something he wasn’t supposed to be listening to.

“I’ve noticed that as well, though I’m not surprised, looking back.” Greg dipped a spoon into the sugar bowl, pulling it out a moment later heaping in sweetener.

Mycroft’s lips pursed in thought. “I suppose you’re right.”

John could feel his face mold into confusion. Were they talking about him? It kind of sounded like it was possible, but John knew that it was equally possible they could be talking about something else. Doms and Caregivers were like that—having their own code for everything.

Sherlock tapped on John’s shoulder, pulling him away from his thoughts. Sherlock had two nuggets poking out of his mouth, which only added to the monster look he was giving off with clawed hands and furrowed eyebrows.

John couldn’t help but laugh. Sherlock just looked plain silly!

A stern look from Greg had Sherlock pulling the nuggets out of his mouth and placed back on his plate. Still, he sent John a small smile, which made John giggle.

“What are you two planning on doing after lunch?” Mycroft asked, leaning into the table with his elbows.

John was shocked to see the man could drop the formal “I-am-the-British-government” look. In fact, Mycroft almost looked like any uncle would, asking a few Littles what their plans were for the rest of the day.

Sherlock’s hand shot into the air, waving madly as if they were in a classroom and he was an eager student. Mycroft actually chuckled at the sight, tipping his head towards Sherlock to show that he may answer.

“Can we watch a movie tonight?”

Mycroft seemed to mull this over, eyes locking with Greg’s for a moment before he looked back over and said, “Under the condition that John may choose it, yes.”

Sherlock wooped, and John could feel his shoulders slumping over as he curled into himself. He almost wished they hadn’t added that condition.

“Calm down, please.” Greg scorned, which seemed to be enough to get Sherlock back into his seat.

John picked up his last chicken nugget and pushed it into his mouth. He felt as if he didn’t have anything to add to the conversation as Sherlock went on about his dragon and the hoard of gold he had stored in a bookshelf, high above the village of Hot Wheels cars. Maybe he could mention his new book, but that wouldn’t make any sense. An old book wasn’t near as fun as a dragon. 

He wondered if he’d be welcome back here after the weekend. John was very good as messing things up. Maybe he’d break a toy or ruin a book and wouldn’t be allowed back. Maybe Sherlock wouldn’t like to share his toys and crafts. Maybe—

“What about you, John?” Mycroft asked.

John’s head shot up to look at the man, not having been listening. He sat in silence, unsure of what the question was.

“John had found a book that he fancied, yeah?” Greg answered, and John realized the question must have been about what he was doing before lunch. 

John nodded his head, only then aware that the book wasn’t on him. He looked at the floor, on either side of his chair, and then at the table. He must have lost it, or maybe someone had stolen it, or maybe—

“He left it in the playroom for lunch, but I thought he might like to take it with him to bed tonight?” 

John wondered for a moment if Greg could read his thoughts. He seemed to know just when to come in and cut off a bad trail of thoughts.

“Of course, books are allowed anywhere in the house.” Mycroft answered.

“Just not on the floor!” Sherlock filled in, flicking his hand as if he was holding a cane with his nose stuck in the air.

John laughed as the playful mockery Sherlock was doing of Mycroft. He did do that thing with his hand a lot.

“Oh, I don’t think we went over those rules with him.” Greg said, as if just realizing this fact.

And if that didn’t fill John with a fair anount of uncertainty, Sherlock’s groan beside him sure did. 

“Hey now, there are only three rules.” Mycroft warned, a tone John recognized as a shape-up-or-else warning. “One, toys are to put away neatly. Two, toys inside the playroom stay in the playroom unless given special permission on a case-by-case basis. Three, always respect your things. That means no throwing them, breaking them, hitting them, or otherwise causing them harm.”

John could hear the words, he knew he wasn’t deaf. But something about the way it was said just made them all sound pushed together. 

“Sherlock will help you, sweetie, don’t worry.” Greg said, as if realizing John’s confusion.

John nodded his head.

Lunch was a quick clean up, and then Greg walked them back to the playroom. This time, though, Greg stayed. John liked that.

Sherlock had introduced John to his game, showing him the secret stash of treasure (which turned out to be candy Greg and Mycroft didn’t know he had), and then finding John his own dinosaur to terrorize the Hot Wheels towns-people with. 

It was half-way through their destruction of the people that John decided the towns-people needed houses to live in. Sherlock said that cars don’t have houses, but John said that people had garage and parked cars in their house. Sherlock had shrugged, helping John find a tub of Legos and another of wooden blocks. They built simple structures, wanting to build as many as they could, then stood from a small step stool and dropped their dragons on the town.

John laughed so hard that his stomach hurt, watching as Sherlock stepped off the step-stool to avoid falling off with his own laughter. Sherlock swung around and snatched the dragons back up, handing John his before they both dropped them for the second time. John couldn’t pin-point exactly what it was about it that was so amusing, but watching Legos and blocks and toy cars knocked across the room was just the funniest thing on earth.

He hadn’t even realized how long they had been playing until Greg said it was time to clean up and get ready for dinner.

John was amazed. When he was Big, he never would have lost track like that. Most every second was accounted for, especially with Sherlock. Time was just too important to not think about it. But being Little, here, it didn’t matter. 

It didn’t matter if John kept an eye on the mail man, or the runner from two doors down who left exactly at 3:30 every afternoon. This was always his sign to get off his computer and start the afternoon tea for Sherlock and him. But that didn’t matter here because John wasn’t in charge of those things. 

Instead, John was in charge of putting his toys away with Sherlock, washing his hands with Greg, and eating dinner with everyone. He didn’t have to think about it, everything just was. Maybe Big him didn’t like being idle, but Little John loves being able to do what he liked. For the most part.

At dinner, as Sherlock told his story, John decided to join in. He didn’t say very much, but he nodded when Sherlock would say something and then turn to him asking, “Right, John-John?” 

Sherlock had helped clean off the table this time, and Greg had taken John’s hand to lead him out of the kitchen and down the hall. John wasn’t even sure why until he recognized the bathroom door. Instantly, John reached a hand down to see if he had missed something. But there was no squish, and John let out a relieved sigh. But then, why were they here? His hands were already washed.

“We’re going to try going potty before we get ready for the movie, okay?” Greg asked as he led John into the bathroom. 

John nodded, staying still as Greg worked to unhook the overalls. John didn’t even think about having to go, but suddenly he really had to go, and Greg was taking too long. John started to wiggle impatiently, running to the toilet as soon as his pants were off.

He knew he must have looked weird sitting down, but with the overalls still around his ankles, standing up just didn’t seem like it would work.

When he was finished, John pulled everything back up on his own, letting Greg do the shoulder straps. They washed their hands, then walked back through the hallway.

Greg opened the door into the play room, a route John was starting to remember from the bathroom. He may need it later. For a moment, he wondered why they were in here until he saw Mycroft opening what had looked like a cabinet to show a large TV by the reading corner.

Greg led John over by the hand as he asked, “Should we get them in pajamas first?”

Mycroft pauses for a moment, looking at John, then back at Greg. “That would be a wise decision.”

“Noooo~ We always do pajamas after!” Sherlock complained from where he sat cross-legged on the floor.

“You’ll be more comfortable this way,” Mycroft said, holding out his hand. “We can also grab some blankets for you two on the way.”

Sherlock sighed, taking the hand to help him up, then following Mycroft as they walked to the door. John and Greg followed behind.

John decided that they must have kept all of Sherlock’s things in his room as he was standing in it again, surrounded by toys and glow-in-the-dark stars. 

“Hand out of your mouth please,” Mycroft said as he came over with a pair of pajamas.

John was quick to pull away his hand, hiding it behind his back. He could feel a blush spread across his face as Mycroft helped unbutton his shoulder straps to let John step out. Getting undressed in front of this many people seemed like something he shouldn’t be doing, but a quick glance over at Sherlock showed him it was just something they did.

Before John knew it, he was sitting braced against a bean bag chair with a bowl of popcorn braced between his and Sherlock’s legs. Mycroft has pulled out his computer and was working at one of the tables doing... whatever it was that Mycroft did. Greg had gotten a call and had to run out, so it was just Sherlock and John watching a little purple alien try to find his way home. 

John had been a bit overwhelmed by Netflix’s choices and had just picked the first animated movie that came up. Sherlock had seemed excited, so John felt like it didn’t matter. 

Sherlock shifted, pull John’s gaze away from the movie for a moment. A smile sent his way had John smiling right back. Today had been a lot of fun—a lot more than John had expected, if he was being honest. 

He hadn’t thought being Little could be like this. It felt like something out of a movie, or a dream. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe all of this would be gone when John woke up, and he’d go right back to life as it was. Hiding and afraid that he’d be discovered. Maybe he’d just spend the rest of his life like that. But if it meant he’d get this one, perfect day, John didn’t think he’d care. 

His eyes cracked open a moment later, watching as Mycroft threw a blanket over him and Sherlock. A gentle kiss was placed on John’s forehead as he let his eyes flutter closed. 

“Get some rest.” Mycroft whispered. “Sleep well.”

And then, the world turned off and John was asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next part should be out in about a week, so keep an eye out!


End file.
